


Prompt #21 - Crunch

by Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker



Series: FFXIVWrite2019 [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood and Gore, Depression, Garleans (Final Fantasy XIV), Mental Health Issues, Military, Military Backstory, Oneshot, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2019, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 21:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20731169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker/pseuds/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker
Summary: The Garlean Summer isn't that hot. The Winter's far too cold. There's nothing special about the Spring, but in Autumn, trees grow old.Titus hates it.





	Prompt #21 - Crunch

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of an exploration of Titus van Batiatus, the father of my main OC, Lucius. You can read more about him here [https://lucius-ffxiv.tumblr.com/House%20Batiatus] though note that his story's changed a little bit from his basic character outline.
> 
> There are mentions of past grievous bodily harm in a context of war, in this fic.

It’s his least favourite sound.

Screaming, he can tolerate. Men screaming, women screaming, children screaming, animals screaming. It’s natural. He’s used to it.

The crunching, though, he cannot.

It’s been three years since Titus van Batiatus retired from the Militum, handing off control of the Tenth Legion to his most loyal Tribunus. His men are in good hands, the province they guard still prospers, but as for him? Nothing he’s collected in his decades of service bring him the slightest bit of comfort – not his millions of gil, his everpresent servants, or the vast political sway he holds over the Senate. He has the power to change any and all matters of law (albeit slowly; he’s bribed one too many of his fellows to really get away with it these days) yet can barely govern himself.

Oh, how he would, if he could. He’d remake his body, steal back his youth, and keep fighting the good fight until the whole world belonged to Garlemald. And science is _almost_ there, with Allagan cloning technology having been the hottest topic in academic circles for years. But no matter what he does to his body, battered and broken as it is, he cannot change his mind.

He hates it.

Summer has turned to Autumn in Central Garlemald, rendering Titus’s massive estate almost entirely covered by fallen leaves. He’s loathe to set foot outside for the sound they make, the crackling and the snapping and the crunching. He knows not _why_ it distresses him so – the fresh and hardened snows are fine, as are the slurried footpaths within the city melted just enough to allow passage. The leaves, though, they remind him of something. Make his legs seize up and refuse to take another step, when it gets bad enough. He thinks to himself when it’s over how _pathetic_ he is – a brilliant, strong Legatus like him, worried by a bunch of leaves?

But he can’t help it. They aren’t even fresh memories, either. It’s been decades since he served in a Reaper unit, storming across the battlefield with his comrades gunning down waves of savages as easily as one might set fire to dry grass. It’d been nothing to him then, the sound of cracking, snapping bones under the immense weight of warmachina, flattened to a pulpy mess as he went on his way shooting everything in sight. It was his duty, after all, and he was damn good at it, too.

From there, he’d moved up to Scorpion piloting, though he couldn’t stomach the scent of burning flesh for more than a few months. A few appropriately pulled strings and he was back to being a Centurion, of high enough rank that he could choose his level of combat involvement unless directly ordered otherwise. He did so love to fight alongside his men, commanding them in the field and boosting morale in his huge, powered armor. At seven-five fulms, the sight of him was enough to put the fear of a Primal into most of his enemies. He wasn’t just another garden-variety Garlean. He loved his nation, his Emperor, his kin, and would lay down his life a thousand times over for the ivory standard.

He should be dead.

Titus wonders at that, sometimes – how much of his body he has given only to receive a mind incapable of living with it, that and all the things supposed to comfort and support him in old age. He doesn’t _care_ about the money, or his servants for that matter - he feels nothing for them as they do little but keep the place running, something he’s known all his life. He grew up having meals delivered and his bed made, and could rely on his subordinates to hunt for food when rations were thin. All of that just happens to be a part of life, what keeps him going, what keeps him _alive_.

But he’s not really living, and he hasn’t the slightest clue how. Everything hurts, and when it doesn’t, he can’t stop thinking about when it will again. His wife barely speaks to him, though that’s more a mercy these days than curse. He hasn’t heard from either of his children in a solid decade, but the Fourth Legion hasn’t reported his eldest dead yet, so that’s something.

Titus wonders occasionally about his youngest, the child who looked almost exactly like him and acted completely the opposite. The same opalescent eyes every trueborn Batiatus inherited, the typical white-blond hair… without a single commanding bone in his body. The lad - for that was what he imposed upon Titus when coming home from his last day at the Academy – wished for nothing more than to serve his nation until the day he died. Never mind that Titus himself had made the same decision aged sixteen, desperate to escape his own father and find comeraderie, purpose and _safety_ within a Legion’s ranks. He told the boy, his Lucius, that it wasn’t going to be worth it in the end. He had not the courage to speak of himself, and so Lucius did not understand – _could not_ understand what the ravages of war had done to him, and would do to Lucius too if he wasn’t careful. Lucius, however, had made up his mind, and so Titus had gifted him in secret something that would come in handy if he ever found himself endangered without a gun. He wonders where it is, now, that squiggly little dagger he stole from his father before leaving home for good. Some heirloom, but better than nothing.

Titus sighs, running an unsteady hand back through his thinning hair. He’s been silver-grey for years and his wardrober tells him how _dignified_ it makes him look, how stately, refined. The last time that man complimented him, Titus just about snapped his neck. But this time, he could do nothing more than stand still, and think how little it matters. That was a week ago. He hasn’t left the house since.

He doesn’t want to.

It’s Autumn, after all.

And he cannot bear the leaves.


End file.
